Shall We Blame a Turtle for Walking Slow

        I realized something was wrong in middle school.

         The first time I heard it was in math class. I heard it from the back of the classroom, when Ms. Belarus asked me to solve for pi for the problem on the blackboard.

         I stood there in my school uniform, staring at the board in defeat as my fellow classmates watched intently. My pleated skirt was too short on me after I grew about 3 inches over the summer, the dust coming off the chalk was irritating my eyes, and my miserable little body was shivering from the open window next to me.  I remember thinking that I hoped some god watching over me could make the fire bell ring before I could finish. Just a quick one, 3 minutes was all I needed. Then Ms. Belarus would forget about me being up to the board and no one would know that the only thing I knew about pi was that it tasted good with pumpkin inside of it.

         I looked up at Ms. Belarus and saw that she had an expectant look on and was gesturing for me to continue.  Glancing around nervously, I stared back at the problem and started rewriting the numbers the teacher wrote beforehand.

         6∏ / 3= 3∏-x

         Nine symbols. Uneven. I hated that.

         I rolled the chalk between my hands as I set about fixing the 6. The teacher’s handwriting was slanted slightly upward.  I almost shuddered as I erased it, too busying to notice the murmurs coming from the rest of the class.

“Lonnie!” Ms. Belarus said, startling me. As I turned, the chalk screeched on the board, leaving a large diagonal line across the board and causing my classmates to groan. I looked at the line in panic and immediately drew an identical line on the opposite side.

         “What are doing, Lonnie?” she questioned. “Don’t think erasing the problem will get you out of solving it.”

         “But the problem wasn't right.” I said, confident that the other kids would agree. The class giggled and I grinned, thinking they were laughing at the teacher.

         “What do you mean it wasn't right??” she asked, sounding confused and a little intrigued. I along with her. Wasn't it obvious what I meant? What kind of teacher did I have if she didn't even know simple things such as this? My hands started to shake a little, and I rushed out my explanation.

         “The numbers. I mean- the number of numbers. They weren't even. And your handwriting, it was slanting upwards. You can’t solve problems like that. The writing has to be straight, the numbers even. I had to fix it, you know?” I said, looking at the teacher pleadingly. She had to know what I meant. She had to. She just had a momentary lapse of judgment before. I couldn't be the only one who noticed this.

         The teacher stayed silent. Her eyes were wide; staring at me as if I had grew two more arms right before her eyes. The murmurs got even louder and I felt my cheeks burning. My eyes welled up with tears and all I wanted to do was fall into the deepest hole at that moment.

         That’s when I heard it. In a loud whisper from the back.

         Weirdo. Except a lot of people said it, so it traveled across the classroom. It sounded like a curse.

           My teacher’s look turned into pity, and she shook her head. “No, I don’t know.” She looked at me again, her eyes searching. For what, I don’t know. Then she sighed and gestured me towards her. I followed, trembling like a leaf on the windiest of days. “Come with me, we’re calling you’re parents now Lonnie.”

         That was three years ago.

         And nothing’s changed since then.

                            …

         My older sister Emma peered at her reflection in the passenger visor mirror.  “Why didn't anyone tell me my hair was this much of a mess? Everyone at school must have thought I was crazy!”

         Mother looked straight ahead. A yellow truck came from nowhere, getting close to clipping the side of our car.  Mom’s hands tightened on the wheel as she veered sharply to the left. “Watch where you’re going, jerk!”

         Emma went on, shifting her brown curly hair from side to side as she looked in the mirror. “I mean, really? My math teacher assigned me to Blake Duran’s group today. Oh, he must have thought I looked terrible!”  Emma shot me a look as Mom turned another corner.  “How come you didn't say anything?”

         I looked up from where I laid my head on the window lazily. “What makes you think I was worried about how you look?”

          Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Watch it brat-”

         Our black Saab made a sharp turn that had Mother cursing loudly. The force knocked me against the car side and I let out a groan, thoughts turning to why this was all happening. Mother was driving us home from school, where we were let out early because of blizzard warnings. The roads were already covered with a thin layer of ice, which made the hour drive from school to home even more tedious. We drove down the slippery road, our mother squinting and cursing as she tried to maneuver through the star less scape of threatening storm clouds. Here and there cars drove by, often too close to our own for Mother’s comfort.

         I’d taken to counting the trees as we drove by. But for a reason I didn't question, I only counted them in threes. If there were five red woods, I’d count the three, wait for one more, and count to six. With the way the sky was darkening around us, I felt I’d need glasses by the end of our ride. Looking for dark trees against a dark sky was like painting crows on a black canvas.

         After a brief silence, Emma resumed her critique.  “You know what, Lonnie? You are such a freak! You probably didn’t notice me because you’re too busy counting how many steps you take or whatever.”

         I sat up completely and glared at her. “I do not!”

         Emma smirked. “Do too. Don’t think I don’t notice how you wash your face three times every day. You even brush your teeth three times in one sitting! You have everything organized by color too, it’s super creepy.” She gave a fake shudder. “Your room’s, like, color-coded, you weirdo.”

         My face burned.  “Shut up, you witch. It’s not like I go around telling everyone about your crush on Blake.” I imitated her shudder. “You have like have a shrine to him in your closet. Now that’s creepy.

         Emma’s face bloomed so red I could tell she was blushing even with her spay on tan.  Turning around in her seat, she glared at me. “I do not,” she shrieked, her hand reaching towards my face, ready to claw at me. I immediately slapped at her hand, taking on the defense.

           Mother swiveled to the right again, narrowly missing a tree. Emma made a grab for my hair while I was already pulling hers.

         “You O.C.D freak!”

         “Conceited wannabe!”

         Mother switched lanes hazardously as she tried to avoid a block of snow spilling into the road.

         “Why don’t you just go back to dividing the trees into groups of threes like a good little weirdo?”

         That made a chill run through my spine. My argument made me miss some of the trees. We should go back. I need to start again.  I need to count. Before I could recover, I was already back at it. “One twothree, fourfivesix, seveneightnine-”

         Emma groaned. “Oh, but I didn't mean it you little-”

         Mother let out a shout as she yanked on the wheel. Gravel spat away from the tires as the car skidded on the ice. Our headlights flashed, illuminating something big and black right before we crashed.

         The airbags upfront exploded while I was thrust back by my seat belt. I let out a groan as my head bounced against the seat, while I heard a gasp coming from where Emma was.

         Once the airbags deflated, Mother called out. “Is everyone alright?”

         The redwood stood tall in front of our car.

         I opened my mouth to say yes, but Emma interrupted. “Alright? Look what you did to me!”

         She had her hands to her face, trying to distinguish what was wrong through the cracked rear view mirror. Overall she was okay, but she banged her head against the dashboard upon impact. The tenderness of her cheekbone showed that her eyes would be raccoon rimmed for weeks to come. She touched her nose and let out a groan. Her fingertips had a spot of blood on them. I winced. Her eyes refocused on Mother, who was titling her head and tending to her own bloody nose.

         “Mother! Look at me!” Emma shook Mother’s shoulder, gesturing vehemently towards her face.

         Mother pushed her away. “Oh, don’t be a drama queen.” She turned her face towards me, and I winced at the large gooseberry that was forming on her forehead. “Now, are you alright Lonnie?”

         Emma snorted.

         “She’s all that and more.”  She peered closer at the mirror.  “Dang it!  I bit my lip too!”  She looked back at me coldly. “I see you’re fine.”

         I kept silent.

         “What? Are those rituals you do supposed to be spells? Do they protect you? Are you a witch now on top of being a freak?”

         I bit my tongue and started counting the lines in the seat cushion under my breath.

         Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t ignore me, you little freak. I’m the one that keeps the kids at school from making fun of you more than they already do. You should be grateful that I don’t let them beat you up for rearranging the paint brushes in size order or whatever the hell it is you-”

         Mother slammed down her hand on the dashboard. “That’s enough!”

         Emma jumped and looked at Mother. Her eyes were blazing like a wild fire. Emma sunk into her seat.

         Mother turned towards me as I was counting the lines even faster. Emma’s yelling always made my condition worse. It only reminded me of what was wrong with me, which in turn reminded of me what I had had had to do right now.

         She sighed gently. “Lonnie.”

          “-seveneightnine, teneleventwelve, thirteenfourteenfifteen-”

         “Lonnie.”

         “Sixteenseventeeneighteen, nineteentwentytwentyone-”

         Mother laid her hand on my shoulder, making me lose track of my counting. My eyes widened.“Onetwothreefourfivesixseven-”

         “Lonnie!”

         I stopped dead. My mother’s eyes were wet and close to tearing.

         “Please stop for a moment. Try, Lonnie.”

         I gulped and nodded. Emma let out a snort. “Yeah, be nice to the freak.”

         Mother shot Emma a look. “Now, stop it Emma. You know she can’t help it.”

         Emma snorted. “You’re always babying her.” She looked bitter. “You’re never that nice to me.”

         Mother’s eyes softened. “You know that’s not true.”

         Emma turned towards Mother, her eyes blazing. I flinched back into my seat as saw how mad she was. Usually that look was directed towards me. Never at Mother.

         Mother looked surprised as well. “How come you only see it when we’re arguing? How come you’re never there to see me tackle down the boys who call Lonnie a retard, or a freak, or whatever. I’m always defending her!” Emma was yelling, her face heating up the more she spoke.

         “How come-” her voice caught and she paused for a second.

         “How come you don’t care about me like you do her?” she whispered.

         Mother looked stricken. Emma was about to cry, and I huddled myself into my seat, trying not to be noticed.

         Emma shook her head. “I’m so sick of this shit.”

          I was panicking in the back seat. Emma always got mad, but never this mad.  I started to count again feverishly. “Onetwothree"”

         Emma looked ready to kill. “That’s it,” she mumbled.  She unbuckled her seat belt and opened up the car door, ignoring Mother’s call for her to stop. “I’m going to wait outside for someone to pass.”

         She was out before Mother could stop her, her door slamming so hard I was concerned about the car cracking. My mother let out a deep groan, letting her head slide into her hands.

          I gradually stopped counting the longer Emma was out, even after Mother went to check on Emma and was rewarded with her yells.

         Mother returned, her jacket being left around Emma’s shoulders . She turned her tired eyes toward me. “Don’t worry about her, Lonnie. She’s just in a phase.”

         But I was worrying. I was nearly sweating in my seat I was so nervous. “Are you mad too, Mom?” I bit out, dreading her answer.

         “Mad?” she asked.

         “Yeah,” I said. “I’m always getting in trouble in school for rearranging the classroom. I have low grades because I can never finish the math problem with uneven symbols. I even-” my voice broke. “I made Emma leave the car because I can’t even stop counting!”

          Mother titled her head slowly, looking at me calm. “So?”

         “Soooooooo, you should get mad!”

         Mother shook her head. “No, I don’t think I should.” She had a thoughtful expression. “I get mad when your father leaves junk in the middle of the stairs. I get mad when your brother passes by and doesn't help me after I trip over said junk. But you…” I watched her calm, thoughtful face and realized how much she looked like a saint at that moment. “I’m never mad at you.” she said, putting her arm around me and looked at me playfully. “At least not for that.” 

         I shook my head. “I don’t get it.”

         Mother took hold of my shoulders and looked at me seriously. “It’s because … you can’t control it. So why should I blame you for your condition if I don’t blame a turtle for walking slowly?”

         “What?”

          Mom laughed at my confused face. “I mean to say it’s not your fault. You’re not crazy, sweetheart.” 

         “What’s crazy then?” I asked.

         Mom shrugged and titled her head to the side, thinking. Mother wasn't much of a shrugger really, so I was surprised to see her act so cool. So calm.

         “We all have our ideas about what’s crazy.  Do you remember the lady next door? She had a sly look on her face. "The one who always dresses up her cats as mice for Halloween and walks them around on leashes. Now, that’s crazy sweetheart.”

         I laughed, and she looked at me surprised. Then she laughed too. We laughed and laughed, and the sound was like bleach, wiping away all the thoughts in my head.

         Emma was soon knocking on the car door, gesturing excitedly at a passing car. The driver spoke to Mom about letting him give us a ride home.

         For a long time after that talk, my mind stayed very, very quiet.